A Nation of Caners*

When was it? The last time you went out and came home bone-dry sober? You’ll answer one of two ways: You’ll say “I can’t remember” or “I remember exactly when it was..” Neither answer reflects well on you. You can’t help it though: any more than I can. Or Bill, who “lost” his underpants last week after the pub-crawl for Jack’s 50th. Deggsy threw a paving slab through ‘The Hold Up’s’ plate glass window after the bouncers wouldn’t let him in. Pity that, we all got thrown out, except Ronnie who dresses like an accountant, so people are never sure if he’s with us or not. He can put it away though, I’ve never seen him even tipsy. Anyway, ‘The Hold Up’ is another one of the former banks in the town that is now a pub. There are three if you count ‘The Tap and Spile’, which is where the old post-office used to be. The old Lloyds, which has ‘Martin’s Bank’ carved into the Yorkshire stone, is called ‘Caddyshack’, which might tell you how long it is since anybody made a withdrawal there.

There are other pubs – and we use them all. From The Welly to The Travellers' Rest. We’ve escaped Wetherspoons in our town. It’s a good thing: we had a day out in Leeds the other day. A wake. Vic’s: most of us hadn’t seen him since we were in our twenties. Except for stag dos, divorce parties and other wakes, of course. He had a car dealership, selling Astons and Bentleys out Roundhay way. Nobody knows where he got the seed money. Sometimes you don’t ask. Anyway, he’s dead now. Point is, none of us had been in Leeds since you know what. Wetherspoons is the only pub left open in the centre. It’s like a nuke went off and took out every real pub in a 200 yard radius. No Scarborough Hotel, nothing. There are a few cocktail bars, but come on, it’s not as though Leeds is, or will ever be, Manchester.

So we went to ‘Spoons’s Beckett’s Bank. Yeah, that’s how lucky we’ve been in our town. The place was full of drunks. I know, and you’re right. But you know, we Brits, we’ve got to have someone to look down on. Remember that old sketch with the bloke out of Monty Python and the two Ronnies? Well, we know our places. All of us. Even you, with your one too many Malbecs at the weekend and maybe on - what is it you call it? Oh yeah, hump day. I bet you don’t think much of us. But think about it over there, in Didsbury, down there in Shoreditch, up there in Morningside. When was it? The last time?

Cheers.